


And When The Last Bomb Falls And The Guns Are Silent....

by Krimsonkitsu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Axis Friendship, End of the War Angst, Friendship/Love, Introspective Italy!, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krimsonkitsu/pseuds/Krimsonkitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As WW2 draws to a close, Italy looks back on his alliance, the alliance that he had forsaken, remembering what they had been and what they had become. He really should have known better...</p><p>No outright pairings, though I suppose there's a bit of Germany/Italy there if you squint...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take up your arms! For Tonight We Go To War.

He always seemed most at home in battle. When most of us went to war, we would go out for “the cause” and for “our people” but it was a duty, something to get out of the way so we could move on to better things. (And then there was me, who avoided bloodshed like it was my job.)

But not him. For him, battle was the better thing, what he strove for. He stood straighter in battle, moved with no trace of hesitation or fear, even as the bullets and bombs and shrapnel rained down on us. Even the bullets seemed to fear him as he charged forward, a battle cry surging from his lips. In the early days, as we prepared for war, the idea of defeat seemed all but impossible. Especially for him. It was nice to see him smile after two decades of poverty and turmoil, even if it was an awkward attempt at one (I don’t think he’d had a lot of chances to practice recently.) But it was in battle that he truly shined. He’d found his pride again after decades of shame and degradation and he donned his new mission like it was a medal of honor, In the beginning he swept across Europe like a mighty wind, blowing past their defenses with ease. In those moments, there was no time for awkwardness—I never saw that uncertain flicker of a smile on the front lines and while I mourned for it, I was treated to something entirely different. 

“Come on, Italy! They’re retreating!” He would turn back to me and beam, and even I, with my cowardice and hatred for blood would pick up the pace just a bit, intoxicated by his confidence. He pulled me along as he went, and to this day I never figured out why he was so interested in having me at his side, unless it was to have a witness to his glory. 

And he was glorious. 

In the early days he was fighting for the pride of his people, for his place as a world power, for acknowledgement. In the early days it seemed nothing would stop him in his single minded determination. And while I hated war, hated bullets and marching and endlessly facing off against Britain, I loved watching him fight. (There were times where I wondered if, just maybe, I let myself get captured as a way to see that fierce fighting spirit just a bit closer.) 

Japan was less obvious in battle. Like in everything else he did, he hid his emotions well in battle. But where as Germany fought with sheer force, no thought to anything other than speed and power, Japan fought with grace. He moved in silence and stealth and when his mark landed, it drew blood. It was no wonder why they had so much pride in their steel. In Japan’s hand, a simple sword brought fear into anyone who had to face him. But it was more than that, his tenacity, his determination even gave the great America pause. Like Germany, Japan was also fighting for acknowledgement, for glory. He was an old country, far older than Germany, but they both yearned for power, for influence. Grandpa Rome would have said they just wanted a stake in the world they lived in. And for a short time, they were the powers, they were the influences, as country after country fell under their flags. 

Yes, back then I felt protected. No one would mess with me, not so long as my friends were there. Sure, Germany would gripe about constantly having to come to my aid, and yes Japan would constantly chide me whenever I called him, but they never failed to save me. Even now, when I look back on those days, I remember the two of them standing before me, proud and strong, looking like the ancient marble gods in Grampa Rome’s temples. I still remember the weight of Germany’s gloved hand on my shoulder as he surveyed his hard won victories. “Soon we will be the axis on which the world spins.” I still remember the determination in his eyes as he looked at me. “No one will ever ignore or bully us again, Italy. We will be conquerers.” During those days, I even let myself believe it. I, who should have known better, who’d seen more than my fair share of would-be empires collapse under their own ambition, allowed myself to buy in to the delusion. 

It had been such a nice dream.


	2. Dresden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the bleak aftermath of the bombing of Dresden, Italy and Germany walk through the destroyed city and deal with the cold truth that their war is almost over. And as they sit on the steps of the gutted opera house, Germany has one last request for Italy... But will Italy listen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this one’s kind of a heavy hitter... pretty much the opposite of Hetalia really… but I hope you will like it nonetheless. As always, comments, critiques and questions are always deeply appreciated.

I knew the war was over in Dresden. We stood in the rubble of a destroyed city, the heat still radiating off the corpses of the gutted buildings. I could smell burned metal and plastic and the acrid scent of smoke that still hung in the air like a veil.  Tears stung my eyes, the smell of death all too familiar by now. I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to see any more corpses huddled in desperate piles by the walls of their shelters, didn’t want to see any more bedraggled survivors picking through the ravaged carcass of their lives. But more than anything, I didn’t want to see Germany in any more pain.

 

Something had changed in him during the war. Far from the unstoppable force he had been in the early days, this Germany looked liked a specter of his old self as he surveyed the remains of his once great city. His normally immaculate uniform was crumpled and stained, worn through in places. It told the story of his war far better than his propaganda ever would. The battles, the strain of constant retreat had worn deep lines around his icy blue eyes, and even the steel in his gaze seemed dulled. But his posture was still straight, still determined to cling to the vestiges of his pride, even as his country burned around him. There was a darkness to him, a shame that I would catch in his eyes whenever he didn’t think I could see him. He wouldn’t tell me what had tarnished his cause, what had distracted him from the fields of battle, and I was too afraid to ask.

 

He was silent as we walked through the city, his eyes never flinching from the horror that he faced. I held tight to his hand, shaking as I matched his steps. It’s sad—even as we wandered through his upended streets, I was still the one seeking comfort.   His gloved hand tightened around mine, reminding me that he was still there, still reassuringly solid by my side. But he was so quiet, quieter than ever before. I never thought I’d miss his barking orders, his stern lectures, but anything would be better than this, this broken silence.

 

“G-Germany?” My voice cracked, choked by blood and smoke and fear and grief. He didn’t seem to hear me at first and I was sure I didn’t speak loud enough. But before I could try again, he stopped, his eyes fixated on the burned out shell of a building directly ahead of him. My eyes followed his and I couldn’t help but shudder. I remembered this place.

 

_“Germany, it’s so beautiful! The architecture! The music! It’s almost like home!”_

_He smiled—he still did that back then. “That is Semperoper—Dresden’s opera house. The jewel of German culture,” he explained, his eyes softening slightly as he rested his hand on a magnificent pillar, his touch as gentle as a lover’s. I’d never seen him so affectionate towards anything; I felt in that moment as though I’d been granted a rare glance into his true self. We stood there, soaking in the warmth of the May sun, both lost to the moment that seemed to stretch and unfurl before us, he lost in his thoughts, and I lost in him._

_“I thought you would appreciate something that reminded you of home,” he said, shattering the pause with his usual brusque voice. He withdrew his hand and eyed me almost warily, as though waiting for my judgment. He seemed so young in that moment, a pupil seeking approval from his master. I remembered that, despite his harsh words, his overwhelming power, he was still so young, hardly more than a child compared to me._

_“I love it,” I replied with a smile, taking his hand in mine. His skin felt so warm against mine._

_Germany seemed to take heart from my words, though he frowned and flushed and dragged me along, complaining that we were going to be late for the show. I drew closer, feeling my heart sing in that moment, we were together, we were conquerors, we were happy. We were still so naïve in those early days of the war. One day, I believed, when the guns fell silent and the war was over, he could set aside the uniform and we would come back here to listen to the music once again…_

_We were so naïve…_

Germany’s hand rested against the pillar in a sick parody of that day, his gloved hand disturbing the soot that had carpeted the stone in heavy layers. I could see the timid winter sun, peering through the door where once a grand hallway stood.  I looked up, momentarily distracted by the sheer beauty of the sky; it seemed to stretch on forever in an endless blue, and the sun shined like luminescent pearl stranded in the vast blue ocean. It was breathtaking. I remember being almost disturbed, it seemed so wrong, to see such beauty overlooking such a scarred city.

 

“You should go back to your brother.” Germany’s heavy voice brought me back to earth, back to the painful reality of our situation. I didn’t understand.

 

“Germany, my brother is with the Allies, remember?” I asked, worried that this latest attack might have affected his mind more than I realized. “I can’t go back to him.”

 

Germany sank down onto the steps of the opera house, resting his elbows on his knees as he seemed to study the patterns of debris that littered the ground before him. “Yes, you can, Italy,” he said, and I could hear the frown in his voice. “Surrender to them. You are still loved, if you come to their side, even now, your punishment will be light.”

 

I fell to my knees beside him, my hands resting on his arm, feeling the grit burrowing into the fabric of his sleeve. It’s true that I hated war, that I hated death and battles and bloodshed, but I hated the thought of losing him more. I could never be his enemy, even if in name only. “No way! We made a promise, remember? We’re going to stand by each other, no matter what and we’ll—“

 

“Stop.” There was no heat to his voice, and I think that scared me more than anything. My words died in my throat, and we sat there, ruined countries in a ruined city, for what seemed like an eternity. I felt his arm tremble under my fingers, and—if he’d been anyone one other than Germany, I’d say he was crying—but when he spoke again, his voice was steady.

 

“The Russians are marching in the east, the US and Britain are advancing on the west. Soon they will reach Berlin… and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I am out of weapons, of strategies, of men—there is nothing I can do for my country anymore,” he swept his hand along heavily to indicate the ashes of Dresden. “I will lose. It is only a matter of time.”

 

To hear those words, to hear him say it, brought tears to my eyes. To hear him admit defeat brought home the reality in a way that all the figures, all the maps could never manage. We were through.

 

“Then come with me,” I begged, my fingers tightening around his sleeve. “We can surrender together. We’ll surrender as allies, that’s what allies do, yeah? We’ll go down together. You don’t even have to hold the white flag. I’ll do that—you always said I’m a professional at giving up, right?” I chattered, hoping I could convince him. What’s the point of fighting in a pointless war? No more blood, no more bombings, it could all end today.

 

Germany looked up at me then, with an expression that will haunt me for the rest of my life. “Oh, Italy,” he replied, his voice soft. “There are things… things that will—that are coming to light… there will be no surrender for me. When they find out what my boss has done… what I…” There it was, that shame that seemed to consume him more and more with each passing day.  “You do not want to tied to me when the war ends. You will not want to be my friend when this war ends.” He rested his forehead on my shoulder, still trembling. “You have always been a peaceful soul, don’t throw in your lot with a monster. Please, save yourself, there is still a chance for you.”

 

I’d heard the whispers; stories of trains and walled off cities and of chimneys burning profanely in isolation. But something in me couldn’t believe it. Not Germany, not him. Not my ally, my protector, my friend… I wrapped my arms around him and for once, he didn’t protest.

 

“We made a pact,” I replied, feeling the weight of him against my chest. I rested my chin on his hair, remembering another war, another blonde who’d dreamt of glory. I hadn’t go with him then. And now I wasn’t going to leave.

 

“Dummkompf!” Germany pulled away, some of the old anger leaking back into his voice. “Don’t you understand anything? I’d already lost one war, and they tried to disempower me through legislature, through reparations and disarmament. They won’t give me another chance. Not now.” He looked back over the blackened landscape, his expression strangely calm. “They will tear me apart, split me up like the spoils of war. No one in their right mind will allow me to survive after all of this.”

 

Panic, white and sharp and burning, pounded through my veins at his words. Another death to live through, another lost nation to mourn… Not again, not again, please God, not again! My fingers clutched at his uniform as I buried my head in his chest, sobbing as though I might break apart.

 

And Germany, still facing his decimated city, his lost war, and his all but certain demise at the hands of the Allies, wrapped his arms around my shoulders and comforted me.

 

And all around us, Dresden smoldered. And all around us, Dresden wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Author’s notes: Phew… that one was tough. I chose Dresden as the backdrop to this chapter thanks to Slaughter House 5, which is a truly fantastic book if you’re interested in WW2. I was captivated by the idea of the Dresden bombings as it seemed brutally unnecessary. The bombing occurred in February of 1945, even as the Allies had the Germans on the run on all fronts and it was clear that the war would end soon (it did end not 3 months later in Berlin). Everything about Dresden is controversial, from the necessity of the bombing to the number of casualties, and it is likely that we will never get concrete answers to these questions. 
> 
> Also, in regards to Italy and its alliance to Germany... Technically, while Southern Italy was invaded in 1943 and eventually fought with the Allies, Northern Italy continued to be part of the Axis until the end of the war. Which I thought made for an interesting narrative considering N. Italy’s persona and relationship with Germany in Hetalia… I hope I managed to pull it off to everyone’s satisfaction. But in any case, you all got a history lesson with your fanfic… and who says fanfictions are a waste of time? XD If you have any questions or any other tidbits you’d like to discuss, please feel free to comment or message me, I’m a huge history geek and it certainly beats studying for my next exam. Best of luck in all you do!


	3. And Beyond the Bleak Curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy tries to do for Japan, what he had never succeeded to do for Germany.... But can he convince the proud nation to surrender? Perhaps his allies have more in common than he thought...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the OOC Italy, I just didn't know how else to tell it. Italy has watched a lot of his closest loved ones die, and I feel that certainly had to impact the way he views the war. I hope you like it. On another character related note-- Japan is surprisingly hard to write for.
> 
> But in any case, I hope you like it. Please read and let me know what you think!

Everything was grey.

I think I’d forgotten what color looked like after so many months standing in ruined cities. I still remember when I first arrived in Tokyo. I remember how stunned I’d been, seeing the destruction—another great city laid to waste. The scarred wood still radiated the heat of the last bombings, like an infected wound. I’d stood in front of a bombed shrine, my fingers brushing over the burn patterns, looking for the meaning behind it all. 

Because there had to be a meaning to all of this loss. 

I was so terrified. Because it was exactly the same—I’d seen this all already. I saw it through the eyes of a child as Grampa’s empire burned before me. And I saw it again… so recently…

…The memory was never far from my mind in those days… Sitting in that shelter there wasn’t much else to do but think, and my mind never could stray far away from my last memory of him… Of my friend, my protector, my Germany being dragged off by a faceless man in a Russian uniform. I’d hid, like the coward I am, clutching the white fabric in my fingers until my nails punched through it. Even in the end, he refused to surrender, batting away flag with a snarl. I could still hear his voice, hoarse and ragged, but still proud. 

“I told you to get out of here. Hide in the mountains until this is over. Don’t stay here.”

He was resting against a chunk of the Reichstag, blood running freely from his temple, from his lip, from his side. His eyes looked up at the sky, perhaps searching for some scrap of blue that had escaped the suffocating veil of smoke. But even that sliver of escape was denied him—he was trapped in the prison of his dying city. I had sat at his side as we listened to the roll of tanks, the earthshaking booms of his artillery, manned by mere children, the last bastion of his mighty army. My hands shook as I tried to stop the bleeding. He, of course, batted away my clumsy attempts away. But he never looked at me. (He hadn’t fully looked me in the eye since Dresden.) 

“There’s no need for you to be here,” he repeated sternly and I swallowed heavily. 

“Always worrying about me,” I had said, trying to smile. Trying to pretend that this wasn’t the end of everything. “I’m great at retreating remember? They’ll never catch me.”

He managed a pained mimicry of a smile. “Then retreat,” he said, closing his eyes as leaned back against the battered stone. “That’s an order.”

“No.”

He didn’t respond at first, and for the briefest moment, I felt panic shoot through me. He was too still, far too quiet, his hair falling into his eyes… it was wrong. It was all wrong, so very wrong. This wasn’t supposed to be like this, we were the Axis, the new point on which the world turned. We weren’t supposed to be cowering, covered in blood and dust from pulverized buildings, waiting for the inevitable march of Soviet boots on his once proud capital—this is wrong—

 

“Italy.”

I almost didn’t hear his voice, didn’t recognize the soft tone as his. I looked up, only then realizing that I was crying. He was looking at me, his eyes standing out like diamonds amidst the dust and smoke and blood around us. He was looking at me.

“Go,” he said, pressing the flag into my hand as his other hand reached up to wipe away my tears, leaving a smear of blood in their place. “Please Italy… run.” 

I nodded and managed to get to my feet. He had never begged before. Another shell crashed through the building next to us, showering us in powdered glass and stone as the earth shook beneath my feet. He never flinched, his fingers tight around mine. “Go,” he insisted, eyes pained as leaned forward to kiss my forehead. “I never should have brought you into this,” he murmured, breath hot against my skin. He fell back with a wince. “I’m sorry I brought you into this, Italy….”

I’m sorry….

Sorry….

“Italy-kun?” 

I looked up to see the concerned look of my remaining ally. Japan was kneeling over me, candle sputtering fitfully in his hand. I was doing it again. Frustrated, I brushed away my tears and managed a smile. 

“Sorry, I’m fine now,” I replied, propping myself up against the concrete wall of the shelter. Every night lately, we spent huddled under the air raid shelters, listening to the drone of American planes as they dropped American bombs. All night, American fires burned through Japanese cities— we could smell the scent of it wafting into our shelter.

Japan nodded and sat down beside me, his eyes sweeping over his people. When the bombings first began, they’d spent many a sleepless night, huddled together, counting each explosion, marking off the distance like one might mark off lightening during a summer storm. Each one tried to figure out just where the bomb had landed, each one trying to determine if their homes, their schools, their businesses had been spared. But now, they slept, for there was nothing left to save. The people were exhausted, and so they slept, leaving Japan to keep the night vigil alone. 

I’d grown so tired of bunkers, of bombs and fires and smoke. I missed the sun. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen it, I couldn’t remember what it’d felt like on my skin. All I could remember is fire and grey and Germany being dragged by my hiding spot, defeated and shamed… It’s as though there had been nothing else—the grey had obliterated everything that came before it. 

Japan was praying. I didn’t know the meaning to his words, but I could hear the cadence—I’d know the sounds of prayer anywhere. He did this every night, as his people slept and his cities burned. As his young men threw themselves at an unstoppable enemy, only to be crushed under their war machine. As his war was lost, island by painful island. And there would be no rescue for him. 

“Can I join you?” I asked softly, sidling closer to him. He’d gotten a lot more tolerant of physical contact since I’d arrived here. (Every so often, I’d catch something that that looked a lot like sympathy in his gaze…) He looked startled—I’d never expressed an interest in prayer before, but nodded.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the small altar he’d set up when the raids began. Without another word, he turned back to his own prayers, leaving me to my own.

I crossed myself, the old Latin a comfort to my tongue as I fell into the old prayers. I don’t believe in God, not really—not since Holy Rome. But if there was ever a time to pray… I swallowed as another explosion rocked the bunker. Beside me, I felt Japan wince—it must have hit something important. 

“Japan?” I asked, my hand resting on his. 

“There is no need to worry,” he replied, sliding his hand away to wipe away a bit of blood from his lips. His eyes gentled as he looked at me. “You don’t have to worry for me.”

“Of course I do,” I replied, feeling the tears threaten again. “Look at what’s happening to you. Look at your home…”

“Worry for those who did not bring this misfortune upon themselves,” Japan murmured, settling back stoically, his katana nestled in his lap. “I have accepted my fate.”

“You don’t have to,” I replied, hoping to talk sense into him, to convince him to surrender. I’d failed with Germany; I couldn’t fail with him. “You can surrender. You can save your people, your country.”

Japan smiled enigmatically. “Surrender or loss… it’s all the same…” he admitted softly, as though at confession. “My people, my way of life will be broken down—rebuilt to the whims of my conquerors…” He closed his eyes, as though he could block out reality so easily. “I don’t want to see my lands twisted by the West… I’d rather let myself burn.”

It was the same. It was exactly the same. Grampa, Holy Rome, Germany… I’d heard those words again and again. When would it end? When would I stop losing those I cared about? 

“Please don’t,” I begged, tears falling freely now. “I don’t have anyone else, please don’t leave me too. Please. You’re my friend, my precious ally; please don’t die!”

Japan shushed me then, his eyes flickering back to his people. They slumbered on, heedless of the fate that awaited them. His hand pressed against my mouth. 

“I cannot surrender. I cannot willingly hand the fate of my people to the Allies. How can I live with myself if I sat back and just let them squabble over my lands, my people? How can I witness them picking my home apart like vultures upon a carcass?” Japan asked, looking almost wistful. “I cannot…”

xXx  
As it turned out, he wouldn’t have to watch the surrender. 

I listened to the news of it on the radio, sitting in an airy room with the windows open. The wind felt good, caressing my skin as soothingly as a long forgotten lover. My hand covered Japan’s, trying to massage some life back into his limp fingers as I listened to the details of the surrender; read by the deadened lips of one of Japan’s reporters. Everyone seemed to be in shock, wandering from day to day as if in a dream. Not that I blamed them, suddenly we lived in a world were a single bomb could obliterate entire cities. Where men and women could be reduced to nothing more than shadows on stone in a fraction of a second… it no longer felt like anything I remembered. Part of me was glad that he was comatose—at least then he wouldn’t have to see what had was happening around us.

The Americans had already arrived and I could hear them singing, celebrating the end of the war. For them, the bombs had marked the end of a hard fought war, had brought victory to them with a speed they never could have imagined. Soon they could go home, back to their old lives, back to their jobs and sweethearts and friends and families. For them, the destroyed cities would be nothing more than a bad memory, a nightmare that could be pushed aside in the morning light. 

I didn’t hate them for it. Even as Japan lay before me, broken in ways I never could have imagined five years ago, I couldn’t find it in myself to hate them. I couldn’t hate them for taking away my friends, the only ones who had willing stood with me, who willingly took me on as an ally, as an equal. They were just children, yearning for the end of battle, doing what ever they could to bring it on a bit quicker.

“How is he?” Came an unexpected voice, really the last voice I expected to hear at Japan’s bedside. I turned to see America, standing hesitantly by the door. Unlike his men, America looked tired, older than his years. He wasn’t wearing his bomber jacket, but had instead settled for a rather unremarkable button down. Without it,he seemed smaller, more fragile somehow. He watched me warily, clearly waiting for the explosion, for the anger, for the hatred to surface. I suppose I should have; Germany would have certainly given him an earful (the thought brought a brief smile to my face.) But I can’t—I was just so tired of hatred…

“Come in… we could use the company,” I replied, unsure how to answer his question, unsure of what answer he was even hoping for. 

America seemed hesitant, before finally nodding and sat down beside me, a beer dangling carelessly from his hand. He offered it to me with a wry smile. “A peace offering,” he explained. 

I took it with a nod. “To peace,” I agreed, taking a swig and trying not to grimace at the taste. I handed it back to him and he took a hardy swig, the action more like a penance than a pleasure. 

“It wasn’t my choice,” he said, swallowing heavily, voice shaking as he looked down at the results of his victory. “I didn’t want to do this to him,” he raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “But my boss… and I just wanted it to be over… this war wasn’t supposed to be like this, you know?” His voice had lost its swagger, its larger than life quality and I was struck by a startling realization.

How young he was, I thought, still clutching Japan’s battered hand. How incredibly naïve. He always seemed so strong, so self-assured, I always forgot how isolated he had been, how protected he’d been from the wars that had plagued Europe for millennia. He’d only recently caught a taste at the turn of the century and nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the scale of carnage that he’d stepped into. 

“War is never supposed to be like it is,” I replied. How I wish I would have remembered that sooner. Maybe then Germany and Japan wouldn’t have suffered, maybe then I wouldn’t have had to lose them…

“Ve, Germany!” 

By then he was used to my entrances, even my hugs barely registered with him anymore. He and Japan were standing over their maps, voices low as they discussed their next moves, comparing strategies and advice. He patted my head, acknowledging my presence before pulling away. 

“You’re late,” he replied finally, adjusting his hat. As usual, his reprimand lacked heat, more of a habit than anything else by that point. 

“Y~es, but, I made lunch!” I sang cheerfully, holding up a basket as proof. 

“If only you could be so enthusiastic in other fields…” Germany replied with the air of a martyr. 

“Still, we didn’t have anything with us to eat,” Japan had responded reasonably, sparing me a small smile. “It was very considerate of you, Italy-kun.” Japan didn’t like to talk much, which made his compliments all the more valuable, and I tucked them away like one might a cherished jewel.

“I suppose now’s as good a stopping point as any,” Germany agreed, finally abandoning his maps. His frown never changed but I could see the hint of hunger in his gaze as he eyed the basket. “It smells good,” he finally admitted grudgingly. A compliment from Germany too!? I beamed, full of my victory. 

“We should eat outside!” I sang (I was so happy then.) I gestured to the idyllic scene outside the conference room. Outside the sun shone so brightly, casting a rosy hue on the graceful arches and powerful columns of Berlin’s architecture. The air was surprisingly warm for November, likely the last warm day of the year. It seemed blasphemous to waste such a glorious day inside. The other two nodded indulgently, and we quickly found our way to the river Spree. As we sat on her banks, watching the ships steam by, it was hard to believe we were even at war. Lunch was a surprisingly lazy affair; apparently, now that we were outside, no one was eager to go back in.

Germany leaned back against the bank once he’d had his fill, looking more contented than I’d ever seen him as he basked in the glory of his weather, of his empire. The idea of defeat seemed laughable as we sat there, feeling like kings of all we saw. (So naïve, so terribly naïve…)

“We should do this more often,” I broke the silence, filling up my bowl for a third helping. 

“Agreed,” came Japan’s soft voice, his eyes never leaving the slow ripples of the river’s current. “It would be nice to take in the sights more often.”

“After the war, we can go wherever we choose,” Germany replied after a contemplative pause. “We’ll have freedom then, to see whatever sights we wish.” I’d forgotten how little peace time he’d seen throughout his short life; how often he’d been tied up by war, by poverty… vacations had been a luxury he could scarce afford and friends had been a rarer luxury still.

“Then let’s go,” I suggested chipperly. The other two exchanged blank looks before turning to me. 

“Go where?” Japan finally asked, tilting his head slightly. “We never said any destination.”

“We can find one,” I said, never one to be discouraged by such minor details. “After the war, we can pick a place and just go. The three of us. It’ll be our celebration!”

Japan looked surprised, as if he hadn’t imagined a world beyond the war. He believed we would win, just as we did in those days, but he never seemed to think about what would occur after that. “I see…” he said, flushing slightly. 

Germany was silent, still lying against the banks of his capitol, the piercing sky reflected in his eyes. “I’d like that,” he murmured, with only the faintest smile on his lips. We were quiet then, each imagining what we would do with peace, what we would build in the place of bombs and guns and tanks. “After the war, huh?” He repeated, as though trying out the sound of my words. Finally he nodded, getting to his feet with a new sense of determination. “Then I have a lot of work to do…”

I cried then, in that room that still smelled faintly of gunpowder, with only a comatose friend and an enemy country for company. I cried for the once earnest country that lay prostrate before me, body blackened by the ferocity of a weapon that had been unimagined as we made our preposterous plans. I cried for the stern country who had carried me throughout the war, only to be dragged through his own streets in defeat. I cried for the country at my side, for the cherished idealism that seemed to have been blast away by his own bombs. I cried for the others, for all the countries, all their people, who had fallen under our mad quest… This lunacy of a war.

But, because I am, and will always be, a coward… I mostly cried for myself. I cried because, once again, all the promises, all the pacts, all the memories, couldn’t change the one unchangeable fact…

I was—am—will always be—alone.


End file.
